


Of Men and Other Mythical Creatures

by Avia_Isadora



Series: Of Elves and Men [3]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Family, Forbidden Love, Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-24 21:53:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30078876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avia_Isadora/pseuds/Avia_Isadora
Summary: Aragorn is in the service of the Elven King Thranduil, friend to his son, Legolas Greenleaf, and expects he will never see Arwen again until a chance meeting changes everything.
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel/Arwen Undómiel, Celeborn/Galadriel | Artanis
Series: Of Elves and Men [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2205072
Kudos: 9





	Of Men and Other Mythical Creatures

Celeborn came to Thranduil's court in early spring when the branches of the oaks had just begun to bud, and he did not bring his granddaughter with him. Elrond had forbidden it. "Lorien means Lorien," he had said to her. "Not the Woodland Realm. Not Esgaroth. Not Erebor. Visiting Lorien means Lorien." Of course Arwen was a woman grown, and if she'd been her grandmother she would have told him that she would journey where she would, with or without his sufferance, but Celeborn supposed Arwen was smarting from her disgrace and acquiesced.  
  
The details of that disgrace were still somewhat murky to Celeborn, involving a dalliance with a highborn Man, a spoiled Numenorean princeling who hung about Rivendell. He'd seen that sort often enough. Elrond had showed the boy the door and sent Arwen packing to her grandparents until time should heal the weal as it always did. In a century the boy would be dead and the point moot.  
  
Galadriel disapproved on principle, as she could be counted on to. Her sympathies were always with the girl, understandably. "My dear," she had said, her eyes filled with amusement, "Do you think my father would not have forbidden me your bed if he could have? Did not Finrod try such words with me, and hear from me plain what he could do with himself? Arwen is old enough to choose her own lover where she will."  
  
Which must be allowed, Celeborn thought, as he stepped beneath the boughs of spring. But Arwen honored her father's directive, unfathomable as that might be to her grandmother, and thus his journey to Thranduil's court was lonelier. He missed the child. Her company was a joy and a treasure.  
  
Yet this journey must be undertaken, and it was not all for pleasure. The winter had been difficult and some of the late harvest spoiled by rains. Even Galadriel could not make things grow without seed, and their stocks were sadly low of certain things and certain kinds, especially the leafy greens that they had lost to rot in late autumn. Thranduil would have such to trade and they had pelts aplenty.  
  
Celeborn smiled. And here he was again, just as he had been when he first saw Galadriel, the winter hunter with his white pelts fit for an elven king's robes. It was all he had truly ever been, no matter what title or clothes he wore. He was still that hunter of the snowy woods, and it suited him. Now, wary in Mirkwood's misty eaves, the slow rain of early spring filling the air with damp grayness that clung to tree and bowstring alike, he went cautiously with his party, taking the place of the foregoer himself. Spiders did not love the wet, but there were other things.  
  
There was a small sound ahead, and he held up a hand, his party halting silently behind him. They were not yet near to Thranduil's halls.  
  
Another sound, almost at the edge of hearing, as though a foot had placed on loam, on some leaf fallen last year that was not quite sodden. They stood in the midst of the road in plain sight, and his hand went to the curved knife at his waist.  
  
"Speak your name and your business!" A voice came from the trees above, Sindarin fair-spoken, and Celeborn let go of the hilt.  
  
"We are visitors to King Thranduil," he called back. "Kinsmen and friends."  
  
There was a rustle, and a young man dropped lightly to the path ahead. His brown and gray garb blended with the spring woods, his golden hair pulled back from his face, one that was familiar indeed. "Lord Celeborn," he said quietly. "It's good to see you, sir. But you must have caution. There are orcs about."  
  
"Orcs? In the Greenwood?"  
  
"Aye," Legolas said. "We tracked a pack following the course of the Blackwater. My father led an attack on them at the Little Falls, and they have split into two parties as they retreated. My men and I are pursuing the group that went westward. You are fortunate you did not encounter them."  
  
"Perhaps it's they who are fortunate," Celeborn said with a quick smile.  
  
At that Legolas smiled as well. "Perhaps so. I meant no offense, sir."  
  
"None taken."  
  
Legolas looked about and whistled. His men began to emerge from the trees, forty or so well armed with bow and knife. There were six women among them, booted and armed as the men, for wood elves make no distinctions in their hunting, and there was also one who was no elf at all. He wore the same gray and brown as Legolas, but the stubble of beard on his face marked him as human, though he was lean and young seeming and silent as they. "We are hunting orcs," Legolas said. "Would you care to join us? I'm sure my father would also extend to you the hospitality of his halls, but we cannot spare the time to escort you there." He glanced at his second, a tall wood elf. "Ceianach, this is a trading party from the Golden Wood, friends and kinsmen indeed."  
  
The tall elf inclined his head. Beside him the Man watched them curiously.  
  
Legolas saw where Celeborn's eyes went, and for a moment he seemed to hesitate, perhaps assuming Celeborn disapproved, though many Men had served elven kings in ages past. "This is Edelharn," he said. "Elf-friend and one of King Thranduil's guard."  
  
Celeborn nodded. Legolas had made many friends among the men of Laketown and Dale. It was not to be wondered that one such served Thranduil. He looked back at his party. "We will hunt with you," he said. "If we may stow our trading packs in the treetops where our goods will not be spoiled. We have rich furs for your father and many finely wrought things."  
  
"With a great good will!" Legolas said. "I will show you where we have a cache and your goods will be safe." It was, after all, a considerable addition to Legolas' force of forty or so to add twenty hunters of Lorien. And orcs in the Greenwood were not to be borne.  
  
"Let us do so before the trail grows cold," Celeborn said.  
  
  
Aragorn paused, one hand on the bole of a mighty tree. Evening was coming and beneath the eaves of Mirkwood it was already growing dark, the air close and still and fetid. The rank dampness made it difficult to draw breath. Even the elves felt it. Close behind him as he was, he could hear Legolas' breath coming harshly. Their feet sank in the loam, and with each step it became more difficult to go forward. It would be easy to rest beneath the trees…. Aragorn swayed, one hand against the tree, the world for a moment darkening.  
  
"Here." There was a hand on his shoulder, then something at his mouth. Water touched his lips and he lapped at it, pure and bright and cold as if it had just been drawn from an icy stream.  
  
His head cleared. "What?"  
  
It was a waterskin held by one of the visiting elves, a fair haired hunter with a square face and broad shoulders. "Good lad," he said, and gave the skin to Legolas, who looked as though he found it hard to focus his eyes on it. "Drink," he said. "It is the clean water of Lorien."  
  
"Is it enchanted?" Aragorn asked. A sweat stood on his skin though it was not warm, but the sense of unreality was gone.  
  
"I do not know what you mean," the hunter said. "Nothing has been done to it to make it more than it is. It is the water of Lorien, and this miasma cannot touch it."  
  
"Many thanks," Legolas said, his voice stronger as he handed the skin back.  
  
The hunter dropped his voice so that none closer than Aragorn could hear. "The night is drawing in," he said, "and I think we must find the path before your guard are strung out all through the forest. This darkness touches even us, and it will be ill if we blunder into a nest of spiders this way."  
  
He expected that Legolas would bridle. Legolas did not usually take kindly to words of caution, and certainly not from those who had no authority over him, but instead he nodded. "That is true," he said. "And if this sickness is affecting us so, the orcs will be drawn in to their doom. Spiders will take them as prey as readily as any other.'  
  
"Best to hunt when the sun is up," the hunter said, clapping him on the shoulder. "And camp when it is dark."  
  
Legolas whistled sharply, the signal to gather, and repeated it four times as they regained the Elven Road. Even so it was some minutes before all assembled. The darkness pressed down as deep beneath the trees as underground.  
  
"We will go ahead to the next clearing," Legolas said. "Staying on the road. There we will light fires and rest."  
  
Perhaps the miasma touched him more strongly, Aragorn thought. His head was beginning to swim again. He gritted his teeth. He would ask no allowance for mortality, not now nor ever. He grimly put one foot before another, following after Legolas with his eyes on the bright banner of Legolas' golden hair. It wasn't far. He had been this way before. One foot before the other. It could not be two miles. All around him wavered.  
  
"Edelharn." The hunter was beside him, his voice drawing him back. "Tell me of yourself."  
  
"There is little to tell," Aragorn said. And yet speaking brought him back to himself.  
  
"You are one of the Dunedain?"  
  
"Yes." One foot in front of the other. He would not fall.  
  
There was the bottle to his lips again, cool water flowing over his chin. Aragorn gasped. It was like being plunged in ice water, like suddenly awakening. He looked at the hunter. Ahead, the rest of the party was almost out of sight.  
  
"It's not your fault," the hunter said. "We are more resistant to such things. Indeed, I do not know how a mortal man has managed to stay on his feet. I have rarely seen the Greenwood so foul." He looked up at the dark canopy of branches overhead. "I feel it too, and I have walked the forests for many long years and traveled in many places more ill than this. You are hardy to resist it so well."  
  
"You are keeping me talking," Aragorn said.  
  
"Yes." The hunter smiled. "Now let us go. I do not want to be caught behind myself. Spiders are nocturnal hunters, as I'm sure you know."  
  
"I do," Aragorn said. They walked down the road together, the aftergoers still in sight ahead. "Places more ill than this?"  
  
"Oh yes." The elf turned his head to the side as if listening, then hurried them on. "In my youth I hunted the valley of Nan Dungortheb, where the children of the great spider Ungoliant lived. I hope never to see such spiders again!"  
  
"Then you are very old," Aragorn said. "As old as Lord Elrond."  
  
The hunter smiled. "Yes. Do you know him?"  
  
"I was raised in his house," Aragorn said. "After my father was slain. Like a father he was to me, for a time."  
  
"That is why your Sindarin is perfect," the hunter said. "And you are now in the service of King Thranduil?"  
  
"I am," Aragorn said.  
  
A fire blazed ahead in the trees, springing up from stacked wood in a great burst of red-gold light. It lit a clearing where the road widened, and it seemed that the trees leaned back, stretching away from the blaze. Legolas stood by the fire, and his weary guardsmen unslung bows and quivers.  
  
"Come, friends from Lorien," he said, "And share our provisions. We do not feast, but we have enough to share."  
  
"We have food of our own," the hunter said. "So let us rest from the weariness of our labors."  
  
Aragorn found a place near the fire, sitting down and opening the pouch at his belt. Dried currants and jerked venison, sweet acorn bread with honey -- such was the food of the guard to travel light. He ate carefully, feeling his strength return with each bite.  
  
"The forest is hard tonight," Ceianach the guard's second said. "Are you well, Edelharn?"  
  
Aragorn nodded. "Yes."  
  
"The forest is hard indeed," Legolas said, kneeling down, a handful of dried currants in his hand. His eyes played about the branches above. "I have not seen the miasma of forgetfulness on it so strongly of late. That is concerning."  
  
"We will tell your father," Ceianach said.  
  
"And he will be concerned." Legolas got up to go round the camp. Already voices were lighter. Above, where the branches did not meet at the center of the clearing, bright stars were appearing.  
  
Aragorn lay back, rolling himself in his cloak. Tei got out his flute, as he could always be counted upon to do, and in a moment the sweet sound of it floated through the air, bright and clean as the water of Lorien. Aragorn closed his eyes. The darkness of the day faded like an afterimage, even the black blood of slain orcs. Water and fire and food and elvish music played to the stars above….  
  
He might have dozed, or perhaps he just drifted listening to the flute. There was a footstep and the hunter sat down near him, the old hunter from Lorien. Probably he was checking on him, Aragorn thought, but so offhandedly as not to give offense or to call attention to mortal failings. "Have you hunted with Men before?" he asked.  
  
"Long ago." The hunter stretched out in his own cloak, his silver hair burnished red by the flames. "Long ago I called good Men friends. But of late we see no Men in Lorien."  
  
"Is it true that it is forbidden to Men?"  
  
The hunter shrugged. "Not entirely forbidden. But no Men come. And if they did, I do not think most could pass the borders, for they are as confusing as this forest, if much gentler." He put his arm beneath his head, looking upward to the stars. "They misdirect. No matter how much you intend to go in, you find yourself at the borders again."  
  
"Like the Girdle of Melian," Aragorn said.  
  
The hunter turned his head, giving him a sharp glance that for a moment reminded him of King Thranduil. "Just so," he said, "And what would you know of that?"  
  
"That it encircled the forest of Doriath in the Elder Days," Aragorn said. "The realm of King Elu Thingol and Melian his Queen. And there lived their daughter, Luthien, of all women the fairest save one." There was the familiar ache in his chest, a pain as clean and bright as the stars above.  
  
"Save one?" The hunter's voice sounded amused.  
  
"Yes," Aragorn said.  
  
"Your lady?" the hunter asked gently.  
  
"No." Aragorn looked up at the distant brightness, stars scattered like pieces of glass on black velvet. "She is far away, and I doubt I shall ever see her again." Tei's flute rose, its skipping notes echoing through the dark wood. He took a breath and let his words follow it. "The leaves were long, the grass was green, the hemlock umbrels tall and fair. And in a glade a light was seen, of stars in shadow shimmering. Tinuviel was dancing there, to music of a pipe unseen, and light of stars was in her hair…." The hunter said nothing, and he let his words shape to the tune, old words to the measure. "There Beren came from mountains cold, and lost he wandered under leaves…." He closed his eyes as his throat closed with sorrow, stilling the next verse.  
  
"You speak it well," the hunter said solemnly. "Though I do not think Beren leapt out crying, 'Nightingale!' I think he staggered out and collapsed from his wounds."  
  
Aragorn opened his eyes. "It might be," he said. "They may have cleaned it up a little."  
  
"I expect Beren was very dirty and very hungry," the hunter said. "And Luthien was always wild and heedless and brave, so she did not fear him."  
  
"I'd like to think she was," Aragorn said. "Dark haired and mad on horseback, with healer's hands and eyes like stars."  
  
"I should think she was," the hunter said, and his voice was gentle and a little sad. "And stronger than mountains." He lifted his face to the sky, as though there were words graven there in runes Aragorn could not read. "Her choice was hers, and I cannot say it was ill, for from that choice has come much beauty and joy through long ages of the world." He glanced sideways at Aragorn. "Do you like the old stories?"  
  
"Yes." Aragorn smiled. "Oh yes. I learned as much as I could, though I am no loremaster. But when I lived in the house of Elrond I took my turn beside the fire like everyone else. I cannot play an instrument, so I have learned the lays instead. But I like the Lay of Leithian above all else."  
  
"Not just the parts with Tinuviel?" the hunter said.  
  
Aragorn shook his head. Here, beneath the stars, the words ran pure and clear as glass. "The fall of Finrod, then." He took a breath as he had been taught, enough to pace his words. "Then gloom gathered, darkness growing. In Valinor red blood flowing, in Tirion, where the Noldor slew, the foamriders and stealing drew, their white ships and their white sails, from lamplight havens. The wind wails, the wolves howl, the ravens flee, and the ice mutters in the mouths of the sea…." He let his voice drop on the last line, strong and fierce, as the gnashing ice he spoke of. "The captives sad in Angband mourn, and Finrod fell before the throne."  
  
The hunter was silent for a long moment, and Aragorn wondered if he had spoken poorly. It was rude to not give thanks for a song, and yet if it was badly done it strained courtesy to say it was good.  
  
"They sing of Finrod in Rivendell?" he asked at last. "Men of the Dunedain sing of him?"  
  
"Yes," Aragorn said, "And how not? He was the boldest and most honorable, and the truest friend of Men. Of course he is remembered."  
  
"Boldest and most honorable," the hunter said. "He was that."  
  
"I think Legolas is like him," Aragorn said. There was something about the hunter which invited confidence. Perhaps it was his quiet patience. "At least I imagine that he was like Legolas."  
  
"And that would make you Beren?" There was a smile in the hunter's voice, but no mockery.  
  
Aragorn shrugged. "Only I should not like for Legolas to be eaten by a werewolf."  
  
"No," the hunter said seriously. "That would be bad."  
  
"It would." Aragorn shifted, making himself more comfortable on the ground. "Legolas is my friend, and I like it here. I like King Thranduil's service."  
  
"Do you not miss your own kind?"  
  
"Men?" Aragorn considered. "I suppose. But I was raised in Rivendell. I've grown up with elves as much as men." Tei's flute soared, a piercing run like falling stars. "And there is this. Night and stars and music and fire. The dark woods and the hunt and the night. I don't like cities."  
  
"Neither do I," the hunter said.  
  
"King Thranduil's court is busy enough for me. I like the Wild." Aragorn glanced over at the hunter, who was watching him with a curious stillness, as though he saw something Aragorn could not fathom.  
  
"I have never liked cities, save for one," the hunter said. "I like the trees and the mountains and the Wild too. To hunt the Wild in winter."  
  
"Yes," Aragorn said. "A hearth is nice to come home to, and there is much lore in books. But I am a ranger, and I do not belong in houses."  
  
"Nor do I," the hunter said. "But my lady does want a roof when it snows, so I have given her one."  
  
"I would give her a roof if I could. No, a kingdom. But I don't think I will ever see her again." Aragorn swallowed. "I wish…. I wish we had at least had more time. I wish I knew what happened to her after I was sent away -- if she was punished or unhappy or scolded. I would never want her to be unhappy on my account. If I could see her and know that she's happy…." His voice roughened, and he stopped before he went on. "Just see her. Just know that."  
  
The hunter's voice was gentle. "Does this peerless lady have a name?"  
  
And what harm in saying to this old hunter of Lorien, what harm when the night wrapped around and all poems were real? "Arwen Evenstar."  
  
"Ah." There was a long silence.  
  
"She is the daughter of Lord Elrond, and the fairest woman who walks the earth. And beneath her beauty she is steel."  
  
"She is indeed the daughter of Lord Elrond, and I expect she comes by her steel fairly," the hunter said.  
  
"I do not know if she could have loved me as I love her. But I hope not, for it could only bring her grief."  
  
"No," the hunter said quietly. "Not only. No more than grief was Luthien's lot. But nothing but misery may come of a choice unmade. If Luthien had chosen to bid farewell to Beren, then enough. But to be prevented the choice -- that would have destroyed her."  
  
Aragorn turned over and looked at him, something strange in the man's voice. "You know the stories well."  
  
"I knew Luthien," he said, and got to his feet. "Sleep, Edelharn," he said. "Take your rest, and trust that stories are stronger than all else beneath the sun."  
  
"Did I offend you?" Knew Luthien? And why not, when he had said he was as old as Lord Elrond?  
  
"No." The hunter reached down and touched his hair, gentle as a father. "Not at all. Rest, and tomorrow we will go on." He went and sat by the fire not far from Tei.  
  
When at last Aragorn's eyes closed, the labors of the day catching up with him, the last thing he saw before he slept was the hunter's face in the firelight, ageless and beautiful as the statue of some ancient king carved out of ivory.  
  
  
The halls of King Thranduil were underground, as the halls of Menegroth had been long ago. Like the halls of the long dead King Thingol, Thranduil's halls were carved by river and springs, with conceits and spires of stone tended to beauty by Elven craftsmen. A narrow bridge over the chasm of the swift flowing river led to the throne chamber as a maze to the center, while all about windows and terraces looked out upon it lit with soft lights.  
  
Celeborn smiled. In his youth he had once climbed an interior wall like that to a lady's window, clinging with nails above the drop while he bandied sweet words. He had been younger than Legolas then, and king's great-nephew rather than son and prince. The lady had at last let him in, and she had never let him go again.  
  
Thranduil rose from his throne when he saw their party. Clearly he had not been back long from his hunt as well, for he still wore pauldrons over the shoulders of his leathers and his long gilt hair was pulled back with a circlet rather than crown. "Legolas!'  
  
"Greetings, father," Legolas replied, stopping before the throne and giving his guardsmen room to spread out behind him. "We hunted the band of orcs into the forest until full dark fell. There were few left, and I have no doubt the spiders will have them, as the miasma is worse than I have seen it for a long time."  
  
Thranduil nodded. "I saw that it was so. We have slain all of the party we pursued. They were disoriented by the forest." His eyes swept over Legolas' guardsmen. "Have you wounded?"  
  
"Nothing serious," Legolas said. "A few scratches. But see? I have found visitors who were bound for these halls and who generously joined our hunt. Here is a trading party from the Golden Wood!"  
  
Thranduil's gaze fell upon him at the same moment and his back straightened as though he did not wish to be caught about the business of his realm rather than taking his ease. As though that were some disgrace!  
  
"Dear cousin," Celeborn said, stepping forward in his soiled woodsman's clothes. "Greatly do I appreciate that you arranged an orc hunt for me!"  
  
Thranduil came forward with both hands extended. "Lord Celeborn! Be welcome to my realm! I am gratified that you enjoyed some small entertainment, though I regret that I have not greeted you in greater state."  
  
To the side among Legolas' men, Edelharn started and made some unintelligible noise.  
  
"No state is needed between us, kinsmen and friends," Celeborn said, taking the offered hands and leaning in for the kiss of peace. They were of a height, and together one could see how they looked alike, the same long silver hair and blue eyes, though Celeborn was heavier and broader shouldered.  
  
"Indeed not," Thranduil said, and his kiss was just a little longer than politeness, a first feint in a long game.  
  
Edelharn was looking daggers at Legolas, who tilted his chin with a smug expression exactly like his father's.  
  
"We have brought winter-caught furs and other things," Celeborn said. "And hope to trade for seed of certain kinds, as our damp autumn ruined crops. We have ermine and white fox, which I know you like, and also fine stuffs from the loom which your people will favor."  
  
"I am sure that as always they are fine," Thranduil said, and his eyes lingered speculatively on the trade packs. "But that is tomorrow's business, as you have come from the hunt at the end of a long journey. Let us make you and your men welcome, so that you may bathe and take your ease and feast tonight, and tomorrow we will discuss trade."  
  
When we are both too hung over to care, Celeborn thought. No, that was unfair. Thranduil had injured men and everyone was tired. "We will graciously accept your hospitality," Celeborn said. "Tomorrow we will talk of trade." He met Thranduil's eyes, a hint of mischief in his voice. "And certainly baths will not go amiss."  
  
"I am glad to know there is something in my realm to which you look forward," Thranduil said with a fox's smile. "Ceianach, will you show Lord Celeborn's party to the guest chambers and hence to the baths if they will? My Lord, we will speak soon."  
  
"Of course," Celeborn said courteously. Thranduil had the business of his realm to order, his guards to tend and his son to listen to, and also a feast to order on a few hours notice that would not disgrace his reign. It was the proper job of the guest to allow himself to be put out of the way when necessary.  
  
Certainly Thranduil's baths were nothing to complain about. Fed from the hot springs beneath the hill, each bathing pool remained bone-warmingly comfortable at all seasons of the year, the water circulating cleanly to wash away the journey's dirt while the heat did its work on muscles. He had been looking forward to a soak in Thranduil's baths.  
  
Among wood elves nakedness was nothing, and in Lorien one bathed in pools and springs under the open sky, so it was only out of respect for Thranduil's state that Celeborn took a robe at all, though he shed it as soon as he was within the baths proper. The larger pool was filled with the young men and women of the guard who were noisily splashing and roughhousing, so Celeborn slipped into the smallest pool closest the door which was so far unoccupied. Loud wet struggles were amusing enough, but his tired bones preferred a more leisurely soak.  
  
So apparently did Prince Legolas, as he and his friend Edelharn occupied a small pool at the far end where they were speaking in low, urgent tones. Or rather, Edelharn spoke, occasionally gesturing, while Legolas replied calmly.  
  
Not Edelharn. Aragorn. This was the boy Arwen had spoken of, the Numenorean lover who her father had disapproved of, the one who had led to her current residence in Lorien. In Lorien she would stay for a century or two, until he was long dead and they should never meet again. After all, a century was nothing in the life of an elf.  
  
Aragorn. Elendil's heir, Arwen had said, her head on her grandmother's shoulder as she wept, though he thought her tears were as much defiance as sorrow. He was the heir of a noble house, impoverished though it might be, and the same blood flowed through their veins, dilute as his was by many generations -- the blood of Beren and Luthien.  
  
"Of course you may stay in Lorien as long as you wish," Galadriel had said, meeting Celeborn's eyes above their granddaughter's head. "You are always welcome here." He knew her thought, as always when she wished it. She had held Luthien thus, the night Thingol sent Beren from Doriath to seek a Silmaril as her bride price. "What did your father say?"  
  
Arwen closed her eyes against her grandmother's neck. "Like King Thingol in the tale, he set an impossible condition."  
  
Celeborn felt a shiver run through him and knew Galadriel felt it at the same moment, the words they both dreaded, the most horrible that could be -- surely Elrond had not set her bride price at the One Ring?  
  
"And what was that, darling?" Galadriel asked, her voice perfectly even though he felt how she rang like a bell.  
  
"The throne of Gondor," Arwen said.  
  
Galadriel took a breath, and the world moved again. "Only that, darling?" she said, her hand moving gently to stroke Arwen's hair.  
  
"Only that?" Arwen raised her face. "That's madness! How could he offer the throne of Gondor? Aragorn has never even been to Gondor! And they have a steward. They have had no king in centuries. He's to become king of a place he's never been, of a people who have no wish for a king. And how would he do that? How would he do that without shedding innocent blood, the blood of those who have given no offense? Father might as well have named the stars."  
  
"It's not a Silmaril from the Iron Crown," Celeborn said, almost sagging with relief. "Nor anything so perilous. And who knows what may happen? We cannot say. Stranger things have been done and more dangerous prizes won."  
  
He had thought in his heart that it was as well. Arwen had long been enamored with the world of men. Seeking a lover of that race was simply the next aspect of her fascination. Had Elrond reacted less, she would have satisfied her curiosity and none harmed from it. But a forbidden love is always sweeter than an encouraged one.  
  
He ought to know. He and Luthien had been cousins together, had grown up together. She had stood before her father proudly and proclaimed her love, and thus began the entire wretched business of the SIlmaril. Instead he had run away to the woods with his lover and dared her kinsmen to come get her. A great deal less blood had been spilled, though they wrote no songs about it for boys to sing ages later.  
  
He glanced over at Aragorn and Legolas in their pool. Whatever words had passed between them had not resulted in anyone stalking out. If he were laying a wager it would be "why did you not tell me he was her grandfather?" The answer to that was obvious -- Legolas was as sneaky as his father, and wished Edelharn/Aragorn to make a good impression without tying himself into a knot as he would if he had known who Celeborn was.  
  
And so instead he had sung the Lay of Leithian and the Fall of Finrod not knowing that he sang to their kinsman, Luthien's cousin and Finrod's brother in law. Celeborn shook his head. Of course he did not know. These tales were ancient histories to him rather than living memory. So they must seem to all Men. Well, and to many elves no less. Legolas remembered no more of Doriath than Aragorn. Nor did Thranduil. He was born long after that realm was sunk beneath the sea, old as he now was.  
  
The boys had resolved their argument, and now Legolas sank down in the pool until the water came over his shoulders, his long gold hair floating on the surface like water ferns. Aragorn leaned back against the side, his arms stretched along the side of the pool while he let his head fall back. The line of hair on his chest and on his chin marked him as mortal in this company, beautiful young elves with their sleek bodies and undying perfection. To most eyes he would seem ugly.  
  
Or fascinating. There were always those fascinated by difference, who craved the touch of the unknown and who appreciated beauty in all its forms, not only those rendered first and most perfect.  
  
Thranduil was such a one, and he heard the king's step behind him a moment before the slither of his scarlet silk robe falling to the floor. Beautiful in every seeming, Thranduil slid down into the bath beside him, displaying nakedness as proudly as he did fine brocades. "I see that you have found the baths," he said.  
  
"I did remember where they are at my advanced age," Celeborn said, shifting to make room for his kinsman. He glanced over at the boys in their pool. "This Edelharn. Is he your son's lover?"  
  
Thranduil's eyebrows rose. "I don't know. I doubt it. But he's a harmless enough friend for Legolas."  
  
"Oh?"  
  
"If my son has any flaw it is that he is rash," Thranduil said, leaning back in the water. "He does not always think before he acts. Edelharn is calm and more patient. He counsels Legolas to consider. Which I can only hold to the good."  
  
"You like him then."  
  
"Well enough." Thranduil said, his eyes sharpening "Why?"  
  
"He sang the Fall of Finrod to me."  
  
The king laughed. "That was inappropriate."  
  
"He did not know." Celeborn shrugged. "What do you think of him?"  
  
"He's a good tracker, a good fighter." Thranduil eased his left shoulder down into the water with a stiffness only a keen eye would see. After all, it looked whole. "Speaks good Sindarin, an adequate marksman, though not nearly as good as Legolas."  
  
"Your son is an exceptional marksman," Celeborn allowed. Thranduil did have pride in his son, and justly.  
  
"He behaves himself. Can't hold his wine, but rarely drinks much. He's sensible." Thranduil leaned back gingerly.  
  
"He loves the forest," Celeborn said. "And the stars. And our songs speak to him."  
  
"Well, that's how it is with the Dunedain, isn't it?" Thranduil said. "There's something of us in them."  
  
"Just as there is something of Men in the Half-Elven," Celeborn said, thinking of Arwen and her love of towns, of Men with their new ideas and endless curiosity, their lore and their questions and their books, as though the world were perfectable rather than fallen.  
  
"I suppose," Thranduil said. He did not seem very interested in the question.  
  
The baths were filled with laughter, with unselfconscious beauty, with music drifting in from above in the chambers being prepared for the feast, celebration within the hollow hills. And yet it was fragile, delicate as those halls he had loved and courted and danced within that now lay beneath the Sundering Seas, a moment that could not stay like all moments in Middle Earth.  
  
He put his hand to Thranduil's shoulder, smoothing kinks the muscle underwater, ridges and scars he could feel but not see. "There now, cousin," he said. This moment would be gone, but the memory of touch would remain. We live in the present, Celeborn thought. Days pass, and we do not count them. They will slip away and we will be remembered in their songs.  
  
Thranduil ducked his head, the faintest shadow crossing the cheek toward Celeborn, looking out across the splashing guard to the boys in their pool. "What do you see, kinsman?"  
  
"The future," Celeborn said.  
  
  
Aragorn wore his one good tunic to the feast, dark green velvet with gilded buttons. Legolas brushed his damp hair back from his shoulders. "There. You look fine."  
  
"I've already made a fool of myself to Lord Celeborn," Aragorn said. "I don't think dressing up is going to impress him now."  
  
"It can't hurt," Legolas said with a smile. "And you'll thank me for this someday."  
  
"When the Pits freeze and we go sledding," Aragorn said.  
  
He followed Legolas up to the feasting halls, the sound of drums and pipes already drifting down. Bright fabrics and sweet scents met, familiar faces turning in dances. King Thranduil was resplendent in brocade the color of old blood, forsythia wound into the crown on his brow. Lord Celeborn stood beside him in pale blue watered silk the color of the winter sky, and he wore no crown. He looked up when he saw Aragorn and excused himself to Thranduil, who was deep in conversation with another.  
  
"Oh no," Aragorn said.  
  
"It will be fine." Legolas gave him a cocky smile and disappeared into the dance.  
  
"Edelharn."  
  
"My Lord Celeborn." Aragorn bowed his head politely. "I did not know who you were in the forest. I apologize for my rudeness. I thought you were some old hunter."  
  
"You were not rude." Celeborn said. "And I am some old hunter."  
  
There was no possible response to that, so Aragorn said nothing. The dancers turned, their figures like the stars in their season.  
  
"I see that you love our people," Celeborn said. "We are far kin, you and I.'  
  
Aragorn was astonished. He had not laid such a claim, nor would he, tenuous as it was. "Beren…"  
  
"You are more like to Dior, I think," Celeborn said. "Beren and Luthien's son, who was murdered untimely. I raised his daughter, the only of his children who survived. You have her sea-grey eyes." He stopped, and if Aragorn had not thought it impossible in an elf-lord older than the age, he would have thought Celeborn's voice caught. But there was no tremor in it when he went on. "If you find yourself nearby, know that the borders of Lorien are open to you."  
  
"My Lord," Aragorn began. He had not imagined….  
  
Celeborn met his eyes, ice blue and yet warm. "You may wish to come to Lorien. I think you would find things you like there."  
  
"Then I will come to Lorien," Aragorn said.

**Author's Note:**

> * The two poems Aragorn speaks are both by J.R.R. Tolkien, the first in The Fellowship of the Ring and the second in The Silmarillion.


End file.
